


Keep me forever, tell me you own me

by crookedspoon



Series: Donation Fics [3]
Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Introspection, POV Rose Wilson, Parent/Child Incest, Sexual Content, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22994839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: This thing with Slade, it just sort of happened. Because Rose is fucked up and wants daddy's attention. By whatever means necessary.
Relationships: Rose Wilson/Slade Wilson
Series: Donation Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598773
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	Keep me forever, tell me you own me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlsarewolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [留我在侧 Keep me forever, tell me you own me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23313040) by [banana_ya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/banana_ya/pseuds/banana_ya)



> Many thanks to [girlsarewolves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlsarewolves) for swapping a donation for a fic and getting me to finally write some SladeRose, which I've been wanting to do since Rebirth first came out. You rock <3
> 
> Many thanks also to [stevieraebarnes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevieraebarnes) for the beta!

As the hours progress, his hand drifts from between her shoulder blades to her lower back, unhindered by fabric all the way down. Rose shivers. Wonders for whose benefit Slade had chosen the dress she's wearing – his own, or anyone else's who rakes their eyes over her.

Not that she minds. It's a gorgeous dress (backless, rose-colored, hugging her frame like a cotton-candy dream) and she looks stunning in it.

Which was sort of the point.

Sure, Rose had given Slade shit when she first saw how revealing it was: occasionally he needs a reminder that she only goes along with his bullshit because she so pleases.

(Because he only looks at her when he wants something. And she wants him to look at her.)

Because watching him realize he had miscalculated just how effective the dress would be is highly satisfying all by itself. Those unfamiliar with Slade's subdued expressions won't find many telling signs, but the tightened corners of his eyes, the tension in his jaws, and the hand at her hip reveal everything she needs to know.

She likes how possessive he gets. His hovering was not part of the plan, but it makes her feel beyond smug. Makes her feel something else, too: buzzing and hot, like the champagne's already got to her head. 

Slade's eye narrows when she knocks back another glass.

It's funny if you think about it. Legally Rose is not allowed to drink, but her dad is not enough of a law-abiding citizen to care about that. Legality has never been an issue with him. No, his issue is a different one. She can already hear his voice in her head, nattering on about how alcohol makes her slow, makes her stupid – because those are the kind of endearments she gets when he's not fucking her.

Uncle Wintergreen, foremost expert on the psychology of Slade Wilson, terminator, claims it's an expression of concern. Rose is not entirely convinced. Sometimes she has the feeling that Wintergreen makes all that stuff up as he goes, because he needs to believe that deep down, Slade is not irredeemable. If he were, what has Wintergreen been doing, staying at his side and cleaning up his messes for so long?

But who is she to talk? Not like she's running for the hills. She tried that, but all roads lead back into Slade's arms, it seems. He has a way of sucking you into his drama and once you're in orbit, you can't get out unless you resort to drastic measures.

Speaking of getting out.

A waitress passes her and Rose uses the opportunity to exchange her champagne flute for another one. In doing so, she casually slips from Slade's grasp and is free to mingle.

(She's not sure if the alcohol would have made it more likely or less for her to drag him to the nearest bathroom, but his fingers on her naked back have been driving her to distraction. Best to be out of reach for a bit.)

He should be proud of her for thinking of the mission. They're not here to be caught canoodling, although the temptation to do so is mounting. They're dressed to the nines to match their fake identities as Russian oligarchs, and their disguises are so convincing no one is going to suspect they're related.

That in itself is dangerous.

Rose can't wait to get out of here so Slade can fuck her in their limousine. She's been distractingly wet since they arrived, and she's sure that everyone can smell it on her. She'd made the mistake of blowing Slade before they left, agonizingly slow and careful not to ruin her lipstick, really testing out how much of that Slade could take. Her jaw was aching by the end, but Slade's deep-seated groans and languishing inhales were worth the effort.

Ever the gentleman, he'd offered to eat her out in return – and by offered, she means that he'd already hiked up her skirts to vanish beneath them. Declining was the most difficult thing she'd had to do in a while, but she had to do it. It had taken her half of forever to get ready and look as impeccable as she did – the last thing she'd wanted to do was start over. Slade always makes a mess of her.

Too late now to question the wisdom of that decision. They've got a job to do. The sooner they get it done, the sooner they can get out of here, the sooner Slade can put his mouth to good use.

With that thought on her mind, Rose sways her hips, the silk of her dress whispering around her legs like a caress, and edges ever closer within earshot of their target. She's not supposed to approach him directly, instead counting on her witty conversation (and the diamonds sparkling in her cleavage) to gain his attention.

She doesn't know much more about him other than that he's a diamond dealer, presumably with ties to Michael Bland, or Ja Zaki, as he styles himself. Slade's BFF. Slade's been doing an awful lot of errands for him lately – or against him. Rose can never be too sure. Slade doesn't talk to her about these things, and besides, she's learned to take anything he tells her with a grain of salt. It mostly turns out false or at the very least to be only half the story. And the half he doesn't tell is invariably the more important one.

In the past, she's wondered whether he doesn't trust her or if he thinks she's stupid, but working together with Joey, Slade's ex-wife, and the kids he's manipulated into joining his recent crusade for justice has illuminated certain things for her. Maybe Uncle Wintergreen was right. Maybe Slade just is that way and they all have to suck it up.

Sometimes Rose wonders why she even bothers. Slade has hurt her so many times and he keeps disappointing her, but she can't seem to quit. Slade is like a drug; her need for his approval too strong.

Somewhere out there a bell strikes midnight.

Rose half-expects the artificial magic of the evening to disappear. A feeling of restlessness grows inside her as she titters with polite laughter, like it's she who ought to disappear.

After all, the dress, the glitzy jewelry, the tower of luxurious curls framing her dramatically made-up face that makes her look much older than she is – they're all expensive gifts she could never have afforded on her own. They were meant to transform her into a princess for the night. So it's not too surprising that she would think of fairy tale fine print in her slightly inebriated state.

Everything has an expiration date, after all. Especially Slade's affection.

She takes another sip of her champagne, concentrates on the bubbles fizzing against her tongue, and pushes those thoughts aside for another time.

*

When Rose was a child, she liked to stay up as long as she could. Late nights used to be an indulgence and an act of defiance. Not only of her mother's instructions, but of her body's need for sleep as well.

She wanted to see the Americans that came to visit her mother and the aunties. The house was rarely without at least one of the men lying crumpled and groaning on the ground or being ushered from one room to the next, depending on the time of day – but it was after dark when most of them arrived.

Rose just had to stay up and inspect each of them. One would be her dad, after all. (She had heard the whispers from the aunties. They had not been so quiet.) 

The idea of her father being among the Americans who visited at night was powerful enough to keep her awake for hours. What if he had to return to wherever it was he came from and no one thought to wake her? What if she would miss her once in a lifetime chance to meet her dad?

She'd always sort of hoped that her dad would show up one day and take her away on an adventure. Life with the aunties was kind of dull, after all. They were funny and sweet when they wanted to be, and nagged her about her appearance, her comportment, and everything else she did wrong when they did not want to be. It came from a place of love, she knew: they adored Rose and wanted her to be the prettiest and most elegant flower in their garden. 

Rose, however, wanted to see more than just her sliver of the garden. She wanted to see the world. And who better to take her there than a father whose home was a foreign-sounding place out there in the world?

And what do you know, she got her wish.

If Rose didn't know any better, she'd say she'd developed her precognitive powers even earlier than everyone thought. But this had not been her powers at play; even today she could not turn a wish into reality or know that Slade would appear to turn her life around.

Except, she has come to expect it. Because that's what happens. She could be living her most peaceful life and then boom, there Slade would be to sweep her up in his drama. 

Every. Damn. Time.

It's always somewhere in between "Someone has posted a hit on you" or "I'm a new man; I've renounced evil" and asking her to fight crime with him.

And maybe it's stupid of her to _let_ herself be swept up in all this. Naive of her to believe Uncle Wintergreen when he explains to her that Slade cares, that he wants to spend time with her, but can't say so outright – that instead he has to rely on elaborate ruses to draw her out of the cozy shell she's turned her life into.

But perhaps the biggest reason as to why she lets herself get sucked into this maelstrom is that she's a Wilson: part of her lives for the drama, too.

*

When Rose was a kid, staying up late was an act of agency. One of the few things she could decide for herself.

Nowadays, it's just another part of life. Especially in their business.

The thing about late nights is that they're no longer as magical as they used to be. Back in Cambodia, the house they lived in would light up with soft greens and oranges and reds at night, and there would be laughter and song. It was like a party of faes that Rose could only observe from a distance, without ever being part of that world.

Those late nights weren't filled with drudgery and long hours of surveillance, as is the usual fare when she's out with Slade. Maybe _he_ likes the thrill of the hunt, lying low, unmoving, waiting for his prey to show itself, but Rose – she'd rather get her beauty sleep.

Fat chance of that on a mission. 

Slade is not kind enough to let her sleep in until the afternoon sun naturally wakes her. No, he'd shake her awake at daybreak, even if it's only been two hours since she'd fallen asleep with his scent in her nostrils (that somehow evoked both distance and comfort), curling into the warmth of the sheets he'd occupied only moments before.

At least back in those days – back when Rose was still a virgin and felt the need to inform her dad of that very fact (which is now a spot of embarrassment on her memory she'll likely never live down) – Slade had had the decency to be properly dressed again by the time he woke her. She'd told herself it wasn't weird to see her dad drying off naked after a shower. He was her dad, after all. 

She'd still felt relief to see him back in uniform the next morning.

She wonders if he'd already wanted her then. It didn't seem that way to her, but then again, Slade is notoriously difficult to read. He may have been thinking about slipping back into bed with her and only refrained because she didn't seem interested in sex.

And, well, she hadn't been. This thing with Slade, it just sort of happened. Because Rose is fucked up and wants daddy's attention. By whatever means necessary. What's a girl to do when not even marrying her daddy's former techie gets a reaction out of him? She knows it's possible to piss off Slade, but she never seems to manage it.

At least when she's riding him he's not focusing elsewhere. And when he rolls on top of her – that's when she feels loved.

*

Rose groans when awareness is slowly sinking back in. She wishes it wouldn't. It's entirely too soon for her to be back among the living. Her head is pounding and her stomach queasy, and must Slade jostle her so?

On second thought, if Slade is rocking into her she must not have let him down yesterday. Despite having imbibed too much drink for his liking.

She'd been fine until they left the party. Her memory got dark after she'd felt both Slade's fingers and the cool night air caress the skin of her arms. All she remembers are fractured snapshots: 

herself, dangling off Slade's arm the way her shoes were dangling off her fingers, stumbling to keep up with Slade's deliberately long strides; 

Slade, lifting her against the hotel door once they were back inside, no longer caring if he ruined her makeup as he ravaged her mouth; 

herself, again, trying to just hold on to Slade's broad shoulders as she let herself be ravaged; 

Slade, carrying her toward the bed and lifting her skirts over her hips; 

herself, writhing in white-hot pleasure. That's what she remembers most of all.

His tongue, already too much when he licked her through her soaked panties, had become a menace when he pulled them aside to suck on Rose's slick folds without hindrance. She may or may not have screamed when his mouth moved toward her clit. Either way, her orgasm had been so intense it left her muscles trembling uncontrollably. Slade did not give her time to recover. She felt his fingers slide into her with no resistance at all, thick and calloused and just what she needed.

Slade fucked her so good with them that afterwards, she must have passed out for real, because there's nothing.

Not that Rose has the opportunity to dwell on it, because Slade is picking up where they presumably left off last night.

"Good," Slade murmurs against her neck, beard scratching her sensitive skin. "You're awake."

Rose gasps as Slade lifts her leg to change the angle. It takes her a few moments to get her bearings together long enough to speak.

"Why? Looks like you didn't need me to be awake for this."

He kisses the spot beneath her earlobe, one hand kneading her breast, the other sliding between her thighs. Rose keens as Slade strokes her clit.

"Need is not the same thing as want," he informs her and goddamn, she might actually be blushing at this. She's fucking her dad and _this_ is what gets her? That he wants her awake enough to feel him?

"So glad we cleared that up."

Instead of engaging in banter, Slade tilts her chin toward him and captures her mouth. His breath is fresh like arctic winter compared to her own, which means he's taken the time to get up and brush his teeth before coming back to fuck Rose awake.

She doesn't know which she likes better: Slade instinctively seeking her out, or intentionally. Both have their appeal.

"Did you get what you wanted?" she moans, reaching back to thread her fingers into his hair.

She means yesterday. She did her part of slipping a microchip onto the guy's person, but who other than Slade knows what that was for. Not that he lets her in on what exactly he's after at any given time. Her guesses include intelligence, bribery, blackmail, a warning, or a cordial reminder to pay up. The usual.

"You'll find out soon enough."

That surprises her. Slade is not one to share his information. That's not how he operates. He benefits from keeping people in the dark.

"Oh, when?" she asks, twisting her fingers to hold onto his hair as her back arches against him. "I'd like to mark it in my calendar."

"It's already marked," he says and sinks his teeth into her shoulder.

*

It wasn't meant to last. Rose had known that his affection for her (or his tolerance _of_ her) would eventually run out, but knowing a thing is inevitable does not fully prepare you for it.

It doesn't mean that she won't miss the days they spent ostensibly like any other couple would: vacationing in the sun, applying sunblock to each other's skin and sipping colorful drinks by the pool. They'd been scoping out the level of security their mark surrounded himself with and where they might be holes in it. Yet although their attention was trained on a third party, it was the closest thing to a Holiday with Dad that she ever had – the adventure she'd always wanted.

In her childish visions of the future, she may not have been kissing her dad in the shower and letting him caress her, but eating breakfast in bed together, fingers sticky with jam as they feed each other slices of fresh fruit, may not have seemed too far off.

That was before they finally caught up with their diamond dealer.

After, Slade had taken on different contracts, ones he didn't need her for apparently.

She doesn't know why his sudden absences still hurt her so much. She should be used to them by now. And maybe she should be glad he's leaving her alone for a while. _Enjoy your drama-free life while you can, Rose. Dad's sure to be back when you least want him to._

One thing she can count on is that it hurts less with each passing week. By the time Valentine's Day rolls around, the days they spent together are nothing more than a faintly aching memory. 

Which means Slade is still on the top of her shit list.

Yet despite that, she can't help checking her phone all day. There's a text from Hosun hinting that he's going to take her for out dinner that night so she better be ready when he picks her up, and another from Dick, wishing her a happy birthday. It's ironic that the guy who'd trained her for a short period several years ago remembers when her own dad does not. He probably remembers the birth dates of all of his marks, but _she_ doesn't get so much as a call.

If she still had a tub of her favorite peanut butter and caramel ice cream, she'd be indulging in it right about now to help her over that slap in the face.

The need for ice cream wins out over the need to stay indoors where it's cozy and warm in the end; before long, she finds herself trudging through rainy streets that accurately reflect her internal state. To compound misery upon misery, she's too lightly dressed for the weather. Going back to change is out of the question, though. The sooner she's done grocery shopping, the sooner she can jump under a hot shower.

Once back home, Rose does just that, wasting only enough time stowing away the perishables.

Freshly thawed from the steaming shower, she's in need of the fluffiest and most comfortable clothes she owns. She intends to ball herself up beneath a pile of blankets until it's time for dinner. 

As she enters the bedroom, her eyes fall on the bouquet of blood-red roses on the bedside table. They bring a smile to Rose's face. Hosun must have bought them for her.

The second thing she notices is the black velvet box on her pillow. Taking a seat with a gratifying bounce, she places the box into her lap and gingerly lifts the lid. Her hand snaps over her mouth. Inside the box is a card of heavy cardstock that reads _For my precious Rose._

Beneath the card is the most beautiful set of jewelry she has ever seen. A necklace, bracelet and matching earrings sparkling with the finest diamonds. Those are not the main features, however. At intervals, the pieces are set with darkly glowing rubies that have been crafted into blooming roses, and emeralds that have been shaped like leaves.

She nearly drops the box onto the floor in her haste to try everything on.

The metal links are frosty against her skin, like the touch of an ice princess, but she's too excited about this gorgeous gift to really care. Even Slade and his snub are no longer on her mind.

Although a part of her thinks something so precious should only be worn on special occasions, Rose never wants to take them off again. And besides, Hosun will expect her to wear them at dinner later. It won't hurt to keep them on until then.

For the rest of the afternoon, Rose dances around the apartment, blissfully ignoring the way her ratty sweater doesn't complement her jewelry at all.

*

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Rose greets Hosun that night, falling around his neck and peppering his cheek with effusive kisses.

"Um, wow, hi!" Hosun sways under her onslaught but manages to stand his ground. "And... you're welcome?"

He offers her a bouquet of pink roses, smaller than the one in her bedroom. Already, Rose's heart is thudding in her throat as she accepts them, her hands suddenly clammy. She feels both hot and cold.

"Where'd you get this?" he asks, brushing his thumb over Rose's wrist, just below her bracelet. "Looks pricey."

"Oh. Um." It finally dawns on Rose that it was, in fact, not a gift from Hosun. "My family. For my birthday."

She's probably not too far off. Who else but Slade has the means? It's so obvious now. She's never even stopped to wonder how Hosun could have afforded these rocks. A year's worth of his salary is likely not enough to pay for even one of the earrings, let alone two – and as an IT security consultant, he earns good money.

"It suits you," he says sincerely and smiles. If he suspects anything, he doesn't let on.

This is probably the moment where Rose should feel guilty for banging her dad behind her husband's back, but all Rose feels is light-hearted and giddy. Because, you know, that's just how fucked up she is. All she cares about is that Slade remembered. That he thought of her. Even the fact that he went through the trouble of procuring an expensive gift he knew she'd adore is less important than that.

"Let's go eat dinner," she chirps happily and tucks her arm into Hosun's. Like all the other times, she pushes down the twinge of disappointment to feel how slight of build he is compared to Slade. Tonight is not a night for disappointment.

Rose can hardly contain herself. All this time she had believed Slade was only capable of showing her affection in the bedroom. At least, she chooses to believe it was fondness for her that made him plan this surprise and not his usual brand of calculated manipulation.

A part of her wishes Slade had not been this secretive about the whole thing. Had she known it was his gift she could have thanked him by snapping photos to show off how fine the finery looks on her. (Okay, she already has an assortment of selfies showing off exactly that. But she hadn't taken them with Slade in mind. Or not entirely.)

Another part hopes that Slade wants to come see for himself. In person. Letting his fingers drift down her naked back as he kisses the skin of her neck below her dangling rose earrings.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Off to the Races" by Lana Del Rey, my go-to Slade/Rose song.


End file.
